


You Look So Cool

by whirlpool



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: F/M, Mild bloodplay because it’s Larxene, reference to Axel/Larxene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 16:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlpool/pseuds/whirlpool
Summary: Marluxia stares at her, eyes wide with wonder, and Larxene feels the possibilities bubbling under her skin, sparking up and crackling like the electricity in her veins.





	You Look So Cool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dumbyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbyx/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for Erica, who inspires me with her endless ideas. I've never written a fic with these characters before, so I hope you like it!
> 
> This fic gets a little handwavey with when exactly each Nobody gets their full memories, but other than that, I tried to keep the timeline pretty canon-compliant. KH3's plot plays a big part in this fic.

They knew other, back in the old life.

Before all the bullshit, before the vessels and replicas and godforsaken wasteland of a Keyblade Graveyard, before Castle Oblivion and mutiny and bloodshed. Before they all had golden eyes and empty holes where their hearts should be.

Larxene thinks that she would recognize Marluxia in any lifetime; that she could pick out a shock of rose pink hair in a crowd of a million people; that in a thousand years she could be at a merchant stall in a bustling marketplace in the heart of the Land of Dragons, and someone’s arm would brush past her own, and she would _know_.

\--

Sometimes Larxene thinks about killing the both of them, for a chance at another life - one where they aren’t powerless fucking chess pieces in someone else’s game, where they aren’t spineless puppets or vessels or whatever else that stupid old geezer wants them to be.

She wonders what it would be like to plunge one of her knives into his soft flesh, what it would feel like to have his blood, hot and sticky, on her skin. If he would scream in pain and confusion and anger, or if he would look into her eyes and understand. Maybe she could hold his hand while the last of his body fades away, and she would tell him that she did it for a greater purpose, that she did it for _them_.

She thinks that if she reached into his chest, if she pulled back the skin and fat, dug through the bone and gristle, that maybe, just maybe, she would find a heart after all.

\--

Sometimes, back at the Castle, she used to hook up with Axel, when the timing was right and they were both bored and horny enough to set aside the fact they didn’t even fucking like each other. Axel made his distaste for her clear, and Larxene would reciprocate by pushing his face down into the mattress and running the cool edge of a knife down his scarred back.

Axel’s hair smelled like smoke and ash, the aftermath of an explosion. He was all pointy elbows and sharp bones, wiry where Marluxia was broad.

When they fucked -- sometimes it was him on top, sometimes it was her -- it was sweaty and rough. It was sharp nails and naked bodies, some greater primal instinct propelling them through the dark.

He never stayed the night.

\--

When Xemnas calls for a meeting in the badlands of the Keyblade Graveyard, Larxene goes early in hopes of catching Marluxia alone. She portals onto her pathetic patch of rock and waits, and waits, and waits. She tells herself that it was a tactical decision, a preemptive circumvention of a potential ambush, a way to stake her claim first in this whole ridiculous plan. The wind whips her coat against her legs and blows bone-dry dirt, clay-red and gritty, into her face. She spits it out and curses Xemnas for choosing such a stupid fucking rendezvous point.

And then, just about when she’s given up hope and is preparing to leave, Marluxia arrives. When she sees him, something in her chest constricts.

He looks good. He always looks good.

“I was starting to think you would never show up!” Larxene teases. Her stomach flips. She drinks in his features, the straight line of his nose and the curve of his lips, the soft exposed skin of his neck. She wants to run her teeth along that skin, to feel the muscle and tissue beneath her tongue.

“Where are the others?” he asks, looking around.

 _The others don’t matter_ , she wants to say. _I’m here. It’s me. Isn’t that enough?_

Larxene swallows it all down, and instead she tilts her chin up and says: “Nice way to greet your old partner in crime.”

Marluxia’s face is impossible to read, perfectly neutral.

“So, why do you think the old geezer took us back? He must know we backstabbed the Organization when Xemnas was running it,” Larxene blabbers on. She wants him to talk to her, to look at her, to _see_ her.

“Xehanort doesn't care about you or me,” Marluxia says, slowly. “To him we’re nothing but empty husks.”

He turns and looks at her. His eyes are golden where they used to be blue. As a general rule, Larxene isn’t nostalgic, but right now she thinks she might miss his blue eyes.

“Husks? Not me,” she boasts. He’s still looking at her, and she feels giddy and light-headed from the undivided attention, like somehow she’s forgotten how to breathe. Larxene knows that time is rapidly running out, that she might never get another chance to speak with him alone like this. If Xehanort has all his thirteen darknesses, the final battle could be moments away. She doesn’t know what will happen to either of them when that transpires. Before she can overthink it, she blurts out, “You up for another coup?”

Her heart would be pounding right now, if she had one.

Something shifts in Marluxia’s face. It’s nearly imperceptible, but Larxene sees it, and she _knows_ , she knows that he remembers it too. Their old life - not the shitty one at the Castle, with their stupid X names and pointless missions and failed takeover - but the real one, back when they had families and Keyblades and beating hearts.

Marluxia stares at her, eyes wide with wonder, and Larxene feels the possibilities bubbling under her skin, sparking up and crackling like the electricity in her veins.

\--

They come up with the plan at what feels like the eleventh hour. Their best chance at recompletion - real recompletion, not shitty memory transplants or replication into an empty vessel - is to let Sora and his nitwit friends defeat them. At best, their plan will be painful. At worst, it’s suicide. There’s no guarantee that it will work; despite all the research and experimentation, no one _truly_ knows what Kingdom Hearts is and how it functions.

“You don’t have to go through with this, you know,” Marluxia says. They’re tucked away in a corner of the badlands, their backs against a tall, jagged outcrop of red rock. “We could find another way. Find Naminé, maybe.”

They both know there’s not enough time for another plan.

Larxene rests her head against his shoulder. He smells like soap and sweat and crushed flower petals. It’s intoxicating, like maybe breathing would be easier for her if they could stay like this forever.

“Larxene,” he says, quiet and urgent. Reluctantly, she lifts her head to look at him. “The Xehanort inside of me…,” he begins, then tries again, “My memories…”

Larxene thinks she knows where he’s going with this, but she waits for him to finish, to gather his thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to forget about you,” he whispers.

“It’s okay.” She lifts a hand, rests it against the side of his face. “I know.”

Then she tugs, gently, until their heads are nearly touching and they’re breathing the same air. He hovers, unsure. When she kisses him, it tastes like strawberry.

Things happen quickly after that. Clothes are removed, boots kicked off. They create a makeshift blanket with Marluxia’s coat and a pillow out of Larxene’s, and when he leans back onto it, it reminds her _so much_ of their times at the Castle, before Roxas and Xion, before everything went to shit.

“The plan,” he rasps out, as she straddles him, lines herself up. “You really think it’ll work?”

“Of course,” Larxene says. _It has to_. If it doesn’t, they’ll both be dead by the end of the day.

And then she’s bearing down, and he’s inside of her, and it’s almost too much, too far of a stretch. She leans down to kiss him, to distract herself from the pain, and his hands reach up to grip her waist, hard. He holds on like she’ll fade away if he doesn’t, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her sides. They stay like that for a few moments, locked together, just breathing.

And then she starts moving, riding him, and his hips rise up to meet her rhythm. She can feel the heat building between her legs, the pulse in her clit every time she grinds back down onto him. Pinpricks of sweat form on her neck, at the small of her back.

“God, Larxene,” gasps Marluxia. “Do you know how fucking good you feel right now?” He’s staring up at her in wide-eyed awe, like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his entire life. Larxene thinks that she would be willing to live for a thousand more years, be replicated and duplicated and slaughtered and reconstructed over and over again, just to keep his eyes on her, exactly like this.

She splays a hand across his chest, feels the muscles pulling taut beneath his skin.

“ _Lauriam_ ,” she says, like it’s a revelation, both the confession and the absolution, and pulls out a knife before she can help herself. He doesn’t flinch, just lets her test the blade against the soft flesh of his left arm. He’s the only one who knows her, who understands that sometimes the wires get a little crossed in her mind, between love and violence, passion and bloodlust. She pushes the edge of the knife down and across his bicep, and beads of dark red blood appear.

The sight of it makes her head spin, in the best way possible, like she’s sixteen and drunk and dancing under a dark purple sky.

“In the next life,” Larxene pants, breathless and urgent, desperate to find the peak in the growing warmth at her core, scrambling for purchase, for something real. “We’ll find each other again, right?”

Marluxia’s cock is filling her up, hitting every nerve inside of her and making her shudder. His body strains beneath her, torso slick with sweat, eyes screwed shut with exertion. She slams her hips down, over and over, until she finally comes, _hard_. The orgasm ripples through her body, makes her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders. Blood wells up beneath her fingers, paints them bright red and sticky. Marluxia finishes soon after.

Larxene knows that they’re going to have to die, that they’ll feel the agony of their bodies being ripped apart into a thousand tiny shreds. These lives, these bodies - they’re throwing it all away, just for the smallest chance to be Elrena and Lauriam again, to have warm skin and beating hearts.

It’s far too late for atonement, but maybe, in recompletion, they’ll find some peace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I welcome and cherish any and all comments, long or short!


End file.
